Chapter Twenty-Four
I Am Draco Malfoy
He watched as the two Aurors assigned to guard his family's ancestral home staged a loud conversation about a possible sighting at the Riddle home. They weren't very good actors, he thought critically, but his judgment was a bit skewed by his own excellent performance over the past several years. Still, he didn't think Maximilian Cross was likely to be an acting critic. He would just be biding his time, waiting to get inside to steal whatever the Ministry hadn't taken when it raped the place after the war.
As he waited for a sight of Cross, he fretted. Having revealed himself to Harry, his future looked uncertain again. Harry hadn't told anyone who he really was, not yet, and the rest of the Aurors so blindly trusted the man that they followed his directives without questioning how on earth this Drew Stevens character was going to get Cross to talk. Of course, they hadn't seen him blond. But it remained to be seen what Harry was going to do with this information after they got Matt back. With any luck, he'd be allowed to go back to New York quietly. He didn't want that, he thought with frustration. Tuck's life was not his life. Bonnie was not his little girl. Hogwarts was his place now, and those kids were his kids. He didn't want to leave them. Yet here he was, putting himself at risk of giving it all up just because he refused to let harm come to a boy he'd already caused so much pain.
He thought he caught a flash of movement against the corner of the building, far beyond him. He'd tucked himself into a hedge to watch. Now that the Aurors were safely away, he strolled out into the open, bold as brass. He approached the door, wondering if any of the wards still held—likely not, since the Ministry had gotten in. They must have fizzled out with the absence of any Malfoys to renew them. He slipped inside, and looked around.
Raped was the wrong word, perhaps. The furniture was still here, and in remarkably good condition. The portraits of several generations of Malfoys still hung in a tasteful arrangement in the foyer and leading down the hall to the formal parlour. The parlour, last time he'd been here, had contained a single portrait of him with his parents they'd had done when he became a prefect at Hogwarts. Everything that was missing was suspect, to put it delicately. Dark and dangerous might be a more apt description. Still, it upset him on a surprisingly deep level that anyone had forced entry into this place and taken anything—his house, and his things. Still, he ought to be grateful that the Ministry had used such a light touch. They didn't seem to have known what to do with the place after they'd seized it, so they'd basically abandoned it to collect dust and wait for it to become useful in some way.
He knew he should be thinking of a way to convince Cross of who he was and what he wanted—for all his bravado in front of Harry, he hadn't the foggiest what to say—but instead his feet carried him to his old bedroom. Black predominated, with green and gray to accent it. It was absent the textbooks and broomstick he remembered leaving here; appropriate items had probably been donated to poorer students at Hogwarts. He abruptly felt a tear track down his cheek, when he hadn't even realized he was feeling sad. He hated this place for many reasons, but somehow it felt good to be here again. It upset him that he was turning into an overemotional freak, he'd been a proud stoic for the last five years. Bitter nostalgia was such a bitch. At least he didn't have to walk in and find his owl dead on the floor or something, the Ministry had obviously removed any living creatures, including their house elf.
There was a scuffling noise behind him. He whipped around, his wand out, even though he was quite sure he knew who it was. Force of habit.
He started staring and couldn't stop. He gazed on the face that would have been his, if not for Longbottom, and was amazed. He and his disgusting half-brother could almost have been twins. A thick spill of blond hair. Sharp eyes to match sharp, pointed features, a face as cruelly handsome as Lucius' had been. Cross was a bit thicker than he was, and a couple of inches shorter, but beyond that they would have been nearly identical (would have been, but Cross apparently had never had half his face caved in with a pipe).
"You must be Maximilian Cross," he said, forcing himself to act calmly. "The one who came here before."
"That's right, I am," Cross said in the most perversely uneducated tones. "What's it to you?"
"I'm glad to meet you," he offered. "I'm interested in helping an acquaintance of yours, Thomas Tyrell."
"That minger in the newspaper? What makes you think I know him?"
"Your mother mentioned him."
His eyes narrowed in suspicion. "What's my mother got to do with anything?"
"Nothing at all. I simply called on her looking for you."
"You're a wizard, are you?" Cross asked, looking at his wand with something like greed. He obviously didn't have one.
"Yes. Can you introduce me to Tyrell or can't you?"
"Supposing I could. Why would I?"
"Because if Tyrell found out he had a loyal ally that you tried to keep from him, he'd likely kill you. He doesn't seem to have a problem with killing, does he?"
There was a flicker in Cross' expression. Yes, he was afraid of Tyrell, or at least wary of him. Good. He could be manipulated.
"Are you a wizard, Cross?"
"Yes," he answered aggressively. He'd been challenged, then. Probably because he was so inexperienced, rather than any particular lack of talent. He was of Malfoy blood, after all. Although one had to wonder how he'd slipped past the eyes of the entire wizarding world for so long. Perhaps he'd been afraid of his talent and kept it well-hidden. Now that he knew what it was, he probably wouldn't do so anymore.
"And why are you here?"
"Looking for some stuff," he grunted, his eyes narrow.
"What makes you think you've any right to take what's in this house? Do you work for the Ministry?"
"Bloody Ministry. I wouldn't work for them if the other option was a life sentence."
He raised his eyebrows and waited for more.
Cross smiled slyly. "Ministry aren't the only ones with rights to what's here, though, are they? If you know who I am, you ought to know why I'm here."
"You've discovered that Lucius Malfoy was your father."
"Right old bastard, from what I hear. Nice house, though."
"My dear fellow, being the illegitimate child of a previous owner does not automatically give you the rights to the property."
"You know someone with a better claim?"
"As it happens, I do."
"How do you know so much, anyway? You know plenty about me, seems like."
"I know a great many things. Things that your friend Tyrell might like to know, too," he reminded him of his ostensible purpose here. "Are you going to take me to Tyrell or not?"
"You're into the Dark Arts, eh? Well, Tyrell wants more than that out of his allies. He wants people committed to a single vision. Reclaim bloody Voldemort's empire."
"A vision you don't seem to share."
"One vision's good as another to me. I just want somebody to show me about the magic. Tyrell said he would show me what to do if I brought him some things from my father's house."
"I see. Well, this house no longer belongs to Lucius Malfoy, so you can't take anything you want."
"Oh, you think we ought to ask the Ministry? Maybe if we say please they'll allow us in to get what we need?"
"Actually, I rather doubt the Ministry left anything Tyrell wants here. But no, it's not the Ministry's permission you need. The ownership of this house was to pass to Lucius' eldest son in the event of his death. And you are not his eldest son."
"You're talking about that other one, Draco. Well, he went into hiding and he's not coming out, is he? I might be a bastard, but I've still got a claim here."
"No, you don't."
"Look here, who do you think you are?"
He drew himself erect and looked the two inches down to Cross with all the poise and elegance of pureblood breeding and training.
"I am Draco Malfoy. This is my house, and if you're not going to take me to Tyrell, you may remove yourself from the premises."